


Shell of the Century

by SegaBarrett



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Extra Gift, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27034615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/pseuds/SegaBarrett
Summary: A few snapshots in the life of Clyde.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 22
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2020





	Shell of the Century

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nothfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothfan/gifts).



> A/N: I don't own Elementary, and I make no money from this.

Sherlock had had very few constants in his life. Now there was Watson, of course, and Kitty, but before that it had only been murky interactions with Mycroft and judgements from his father.

Now there was the brownstone, which was a sanctuary.

And there was Clyde, the most constant of all. Tortoises, after all, could live up to 200 years at a time. They must, Sherlock mused, be excellent historians. They must remember everything. 

Sherlock looked down at his bed and watched Clyde scuttle across to the edge. He wondered what kind of things he had seen. He reached down and picked the little guy up, plopping him back into his tank and giving him a piece of lettuce to munch on, then crawled back into bed. He had a case to solve, after all, and maybe something promising would come to him in his sleep.

***

The year: 1920. Flappers. The 19th amendment.

Most astonishing of all, the Varsity Drag. Which, for some reason, everyone was singing. Except for Clyde – currently, Turtlebottom as he was known - who was frankly tired of it and just wanted to get himself some lettuce. However, from what he could here from the room beside him, he was going to be waiting a while.

He listened to the party going on in the next room, letting the words flow over his tiny ears. They were talking about everything, and it was difficult to filter out what was actually important and what was just some gossip here and there.

Then he recognized Day’s voice. She was the woman who took care of him, who had found him at the pet store and brought him home to sleep in her room. She was the woman who liked to try to sing him to sleep sometimes. She really seemed to like him, as far as he could tell.

Although he was doubting it now, since it was taking her so damn long to bring him some lettuce. 

It was hard being a tortoise.

***

“Mycroft, I told you not to just drop in on me like this. Aren’t you supposed to be dead? I should be so lucky.”

Sherlock had awoken to an insistent tapping on the door of the brownstone, which could only been someone trying to serve him a subpoena, some kid trying to sell newspapers, or worst of all, Mycroft deciding to show up again. He had almost wished it had been the Newsies again.

“Sherlock, it’s not a social call. Trust me, I’m not trying to stir up anything from the past. We well and truly hashed that out the last time, did we not?”

“Then are you back to sleep with Watson again? Because last I was informed, she had moved on to greener pastures. Such a relief, as much as I didn’t need the visual.”

Sherlock followed Mycroft’s eyes as he looked around the brownstone, before they landed on Clyde.

“Since when do you have a turtle, Sherlock?”

“It’s a tortoise. And since quite a while. Why do you ask?”

“He could be just what I need.”

“For your restaurant? Please look elsewhere. Clyde is neither for sale nor for dinner.”

“I didn’t mean for dinner, Sherlock. Must you always be so dramatic?”

“Have you looked into the mirror recently, Mycroft? Because I largely suspect that you were actually born dramatic.”

Clyde’s eyes slowly went left and right, watching the two brothers argue. This seemed like the way that it had always been, that they had always been at each other’s throats and arguing. He knew what that was like.

***

The year was 1820, and Clyde had only just slid out of a tiny egg. The world was rather overwhelming and, if he was being honest, rather weird.

The family, as Clyde called them at first, one big collective of human being legs all over the place, let him know that this was a place called the United States and that the president was somebody named Monroe.

The family did not like Monroe, and that was why they named Clyde Monroe. They did like Clyde, though. They just thought it was funny. Mostly, the father of the family thought it was funny. The mother seemed to go along with what he thought was funny, and neither the boy nor the girl, who were the ones who loved Clyde the most, seemed to “get it”.

The children liked to feed Clyde lettuce and other leafy greens from their little garden. The kids were lonely sometimes, Clyde knew – they used to tell him sometimes when they would each hold him close.

The children didn’t usually talk to each other. They were too different, they would say, and had no way of understanding what it was like to be the other. But they would always confide in Clyde.

Clyde always listened, too.

***

“Hello, Clyde,” Joan Watson said as she leaned down to hand him a tiny piece of lettuce. “How are you doing today? Are you a happy little tortoise today?”

Clyde looked up at her, and Joan sighed.

“I’m talking to the turtle. It’s just been that sort of a day.” It had, indeed, been that sort of a day. Joan had gotten trapped in a subway car for an hour and a half trying to track down a homeless gentleman who had apparently spotted the suspect. It turned out that he had actually seen someone different who kind of looked like the suspect, but also that he had once been a regional chess champion and was willing to consult on any chess-related cases that might emerge in the future.

Joan started to tell Clyde all about it, wondering if tortoises had any concept of chess or of homelessness, considering the idea that a tortoise just brought his home wherever he wanted. She wondered if Clyde was even a “he” but figured that Sherlock had done the necessary research to be sure of that.

“Clyde, what are we going to do?” she asked. 

Clyde munched on the piece of lettuce in response. 

The door opened, and Sherlock stepped inside, looking around.

“Were you just speaking with Clyde?” he inquired.

“No,” Joan replied quickly. 

“You know, tortoises can live up to 200 years. If Clyde could speak back… He might have some very interesting things to say.”

“I guess we’ll never know,” Joan said, looking down at Clyde. “But it would be quite a thing, wouldn’t it?”


End file.
